


First Night

by honey_wheeler, thefairfleming



Series: City of Illusions [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Gladiator AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just that she couldn’t stand it, seeing him there on that small pedestal at this ghastly party, offered up for a night’s pleasure to anyone who could pay. True, the only time she’d spoken to him before, he’d been cruel to her, turning her away with scorn, but then that next day, when he’d fought in the arena, he had saluted her with his sword. A strange gesture she had not understood, anymore than she understood why her father had been searching for this man. But he was proud and strangely noble for all that, this northern barbarian, and Sansa had sensed that being sold in this way would break something in him that even all his time in the arena could not, and so, mask firmly in place (and oh, how she had thanked the gods that Margaery had made this a masked party), she had paid for a night with this gladiator, more to save him from anyone else than to enjoy him herself.</p><p>But now they are alone in a bedchamber and her mask is off, and he is watching her in such an odd way that she doesn’t know what to do or say. What to think even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. None So Good

There is a scar on Sansa’s left wrist that she worries at now, fingers of her right hand moving over the slightly ridged flesh. She got it as a very small girl, running into a pair of dogs that had cornered a kitten. She’d saved the tiny scrap of fur, plucking it up and cuddling it to her breast, but she’d been bitten for her trouble, and she can still remember her mother’s soft admonishment as she’d treated Sansa’s wounds. “You always rush in to save things, my girl, but you never think of the danger.”

It was true then, and it is true now as she stands alone in a chamber with a man she has “saved,” but one she feels has far more in common with those wild dogs than with the kitten. 

It’s just that she couldn’t stand it, seeing him there on that small pedestal at this ghastly party, offered up for a night’s pleasure to anyone who could pay. True, the only time she’d spoken to him before, he’d been cruel to her, turning her away with scorn, but then that next day, when he’d fought in the arena, he had saluted her with his sword. A strange gesture she had not understood, anymore than she understood why her father had been searching for this man. But he was proud and strangely noble for all that, this northern barbarian, and Sansa had sensed that being sold in this way would break something in him that even all his time in the arena could not, and so, mask firmly in place (and oh, how she had thanked the gods that Margaery had made this a masked party), she had paid for a night with this gladiator, more to save him from anyone else than to enjoy him herself.

But now they are alone in a bedchamber and her mask is off, and he is watching her in such an odd way that she doesn’t know what to do or say. What to think even. 

He stands there, content to watch her pace it seems, and finally, Sansa looks over at him, her earrings jangling softly as she turns her head. “I have no intention of bedding you,” she says.

He doesn’t reply.

“I only bought you for the night to keep someone else from doing it,” she continues, and then wishes she could call the words back. That makes it sound as though she did it out of jealousy rather than kindness, so she crosses her arms and adds, “It isn’t right, that you should be…offered up so.”

His lips move slightly. It’s not a smile, but Sansa thinks it might be near one for him. 

“Am I to thank you, Domina?” he asks, and she shakes her head, frustrated and confused and completely at sea in a way she’s not used to. 

“No, you…I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He is closer now. “Why did you wish to speak to me that first day?”

She raises her head to look at him. His eyes are dark, the candlelight wavering in their depths. Outside the room, she can hear the sounds of laughter, music, the low murmuring of the crowd. From somewhere closer, she can hear soft cries, and she remembers now that Margaery had bought two gladiators of her own for the night.

The thought makes her face heat. “Why did you raise your sword to me?” she counters. Gods, she does not even know his name. “The Northman,” they call him in the arena, and she fights the sudden urge to giggle, imagining what would happen were she to take him to bed, calling out such a name.

But there is nothing funny at all about the images that assail her the moment she thinks of coupling with him, and she thinks he must see that in her face because he steps closer still. “Why did you choose me tonight, Domina?”

When she doesn’t answer, his hand comes up to cup her face. His skin is scarred and rough and hot, and Sansa suddenly wonders if she did not have too much wine tonight, for she feels giddy and confused all at once. 

“Sansa,” he says, and her eyes fly to his, her breath coming fast now. Oh, this is madness of the first rate. She is to marry the emperor. She is a noble girl from a noble family, an unmarried girl, not a widow like Margaery who may do as she pleases. 

But when the gladiator’s lips touch hers, she does not pull away.


	2. None So Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then the Emperor will be your first.” She blanches at the words, and that’s what decides him. Perhaps Joffrey would not be as cruel in the bedroom as he is in the arena, but it matters not. No woman should look upon her first bedding with such anguished apprehension. Not when it’s within Jon’s power to gift her with pleasure. She’d thought she was saving him when she bought him for the night, and Jon would rather let her think so than tell her he’s been bought and sold before. But now he feels as if he’s saving her.
> 
> “Remove your palla,” he says.

“Have you ever lain with a man?”

His question startles her; Jon can tell by the way she flinches, the way her eyes dart to his and then narrow. “I am betrothed to the Emperor,” she says. It’s not an answer, something she knows as well as he. Jon merely watches her and waits. Patience is not something he’s much gifted with– and even less so when it comes to her, it seems, especially now that he knows the taste of her mouth– but somehow he knows that whatever this is between them demands delicacy.

“No,” she answers at last.

“With a woman?” he asks. Her eyes widen, as shocked now as she’d been suspicious a moment ago.

“No!”

Jon gives a rare smile. “I would not wish to assume,” he says. “Your friend next door is preceded by many stories.” Her lips quirk at that as she fights a rueful smile.

“No, no one.”

“Then the Emperor will be your first.” She blanches at the words, and that’s what decides him. Perhaps Joffrey would not be as cruel in the bedroom as he is in the arena, but it matters not. No woman should look upon her first bedding with such anguished apprehension. Not when it’s within Jon’s power to gift her with pleasure. She’d thought she was saving him when she bought him for the night, and Jon would rather let her think so than tell her he’s been bought and sold before. But now he feels as if he’s saving her.

“Remove your palla,” he says.

“What?”

“Remove your palla,” he repeats, then inclines his head respectfully. “Domina.”

Sansa begins to tremble. Perhaps it’s fear, but Jon doesn’t believe so. The choice is hers, no matter what he commands or asks or begs. It shows in the lift of her chin as she begins to unwind her palla, in the way her eyes don’t leave his even for a moment. When the fabric slips to the floor to puddle around her feet, she puts back her shoulders, standing straight and tall. She’s glorious in her nudity, haughty, proud despite her hesitance. Her hair tumbles down her shoulders, half concealing her breasts in a way that only makes them all the more appealing, their pink tips peeking through the crimson strands in a picture as charming as it is potent. Jon wants to lick each pink tip in turn, he wants to wrap his hands around her waist and lift her to meet his hungry mouth. The old anger surges in him at the thought of her in the hands of a brute like the Emperor. Jon lets it propel him forward to take her mouth again, touching her only with his lips on hers, and then his tongue, licking inside her mouth to taste the small sound she makes at the back of her throat.

“Domina,” he rasps, pulling away and pressing his forehead to hers. “Do with me as you wish.”

“What?” Her eyes fly open. Her nose bumps his chin as she swiftly tilts her head to look at him.

“You have bought me, have you not?” She only stares at him, her mouth slack in uncertainty. He surrenders to the temptation to taste it again, to catch her lower lip with gentle teeth. “I am yours. Do with me as you will.”

For several long moments, she stares at him, emotions warring on her face. Jon only watches, letting her decide. When she still hasn’t moved, he lifts one hand to her chin, grazing her skin with the barest of touches before letting his hand fall away. “My name is Jon,” he says. It is the only way he can think to say all he means.

He can see the moment she gives herself permission. Something in her face clicks open like a secret door, suffusing her delicate features with longing and loneliness and passion. Any other combination Jon might have been able to resist, had he been so inclined. But not that. Not her.

With a small cry, she steps into his arms, her body pressed to the cloth of his tunic. She tips her head back for his kiss, and he gives it to her for the barest moment, but then he stills. At first she still moves, rubbing her lips over his, fisting her hands in his tunic, straining towards him as he stands immobile.

“Northman,” she says, confused, the word verging on a whine. “ _Jon_.”

“Domina,” he answers, letting his desire for her color his voice. “I am yours to command.”

Her eyes open, fixing on his. She understands, he can see. Understands and is unsure. Jon knows all too well how submitting to another’s command can be an almost seductive relief. But he wants more for her. He wants her to know choice, if only this once. He wants her to know power.

“Kiss me,” she whispers. His mouth is on hers even as she’s saying the last word. The power and choice may be hers, but Jon’s control extends only so far. And suddenly everything he’s ever wanted – every bit of freedom, every bit of luxury, _everything_ – is focused on this one woman that he wants with something close to desperation. He allows himself a moment to kiss her the way he’s aching to, but then he forces himself to ease back, letting her dictate the pace.

Her kiss is untutored but intoxicating. Shyly, Sansa gives him her tongue, and her moan when he strokes over it with his own could nearly make him forget all his good intentions. She responds to him with such innocent fervor, no calculating games, no sly feminine performance. Just curiosity and innate passion. It’s all the more effective for being so artless, so much so that when she begs, “Harder,” against his lips, “more,” Jon’s blood sings in his veins. Blindly, never moving her mouth from his, she gropes for his hands and sets them at her waist. The bare skin under his fingers is the softest thing he’s ever felt. She must touch things this soft nearly every day, but Jon’s world is one of boiled leather and coarse-woven linen, splintered wood and cold steel; nothing so soft has ever before existed in his world.

Nothing so soft does now, he reminds himself with a pang. This is not his world, nor is it hers. It’s a strange limbo that may never exist again. Something in that makes it easier to forget the separate worlds they inhabit, the rules and laws that bind them and force them apart. Here they can be other people. Here their lives entwine.

“Touch me,” she says, sliding his hands up her ribs. She twists until the warm weight of her breast lies in his palm, her heart beating a wild tattoo beneath it. “I want you to touch me.”

“I’ve wanted to touch you since the moment I first saw you,” he gasps, sounding like a drowning man. Her breast is soft, so soft, the peak pebbling into stiffness at the unthinking sweep of his thumb. She pulls away and looks at him, surprise and consternation etched on her brow.

“You have? But you were so…”

Jon remembers how angry his desire had made him, knowing that the world she inhabited was so far above his that he might as well want the moon. He remembers how it rankled and twisted in his gut until something mean bloomed within him. Anger had always been what he’d clung to in the arena, what had allowed him to forget his humanity, his weakness, the bleakness of the life available to him. Anger helped him survive. He could tell her that he hadn’t wanted to hurt her; he’d only wanted to make himself hurt less. Instead he simply says, “Yes,” watching her brow crease further in consternation until he strokes her nipple again and her face smoothes into stunned pleasure. He repeats the motion until she’s squirming and whimpering, twisting against his hand and seeking something more. Jon wants to give her more – he wants to give her everything – but he’ll have her voice her desire first.

“Jon,” she pants. “Jon, I need-” She breaks off on a gasp as he shifts his other hand to her other breast.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t- I need… Jon, please.”

“What do you need?” Jon asks again, dropping one hand to press over the maidenhair between her thighs. Her cry vibrates in his mouth when he kisses her, stroking her with his tongue as he does with his fingers. Her own fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails catching at the seams of his tunic.

“Is that what you need, Domina?”

She shakes her head helplessly even as she surges into his hand, rising up on tip-toe and canting her hips into his touch, a glorious contradiction. He kisses her again, deeply, ardently, the way he’d kiss her if she were truly his.

“Tell me what you need, Sansa,” he murmurs. Her name still feels shockingly intimate on his lips. Does it seem the same to her? Is he anything more than a tool for her? It’s alarming how much he wants this to be more, and he pushes it down to focus on her. She’s so soft in his hand, the coarse silk of her maidenhair giving way to slick heat when he presses further, finding her where she’s most sensitive.

“Make me forget everything else,” she cries. “Make me yours.”

Perhaps another man could keep his control at such a plea, but Jon is not that man. He lifts her as he’d imagined doing before, hefting her as if she weighs nothing to taste her breasts as he walks her to the high bed in the center of the room. His strength has kept him alive in the arena, but he’s never been as glad of it as he is now as he holds her easily, despite the way she writhes at the touch of his tongue on her nipples. She sinks into the bedding when he sets her on the mattress, her hands still clinging to him in an attempt to pull him down with her. Jon has other ideas. The floor is cold and hard under his knees, but he barely notices with her there before him.

Sansa gasps when he pushes her knees apart with suddenly shaking hands. No matter how he’s touched and kissed her already, this is a far greater intimacy, and he can see the uncertainty on her face as she curls up to look down at him. She opens her mouth, hesitant, only the sound of her breathing reaching Jon’s ears.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasps. “Here as everywhere.” Such beauty is a luxury, one Jon intends to savor. She allows him to look upon her, her whole body trembling. “Shall I make you mine?” he asks. Her choice. Her power.

“ _Please_.”

The first taste of her nearly ends him. His whole body clenches with need, wanting everything at once, to taste her, to be inside her, to have her in every way imaginable. She makes a small, high sound and falls back onto the bed, fists twisting in the linens at her sides. Jon presses open-mouthed kisses all over her before settling in to lap and lick and suck, to drive her to the edge of ecstasy and beyond. For what seems like an hour, he devours her. The first time she peaks, he works both hands beneath her, lifting her to his mouth, her knees falling farther to the sides as she quivers and throbs. The second time she peaks, her hands find his hair, gripping and pulling him to her. Even when she peaks a third time, he hasn’t had enough of her. It’s only through supreme force of will that he allows her to stiffen and push at his shoulders with her heels. She’s practically sobbing, her legs trembling as she rolls to the side and pulls them to her chest. It’s still a picture that’s nearly more tempting than Jon can bear. He only allows himself to smooth his hands over the curve of her arse, the swell of her hip, the dainty architecture of her ankle. Her voice when she speaks is so faint that he doesn’t hear her at first.

“Don’t stop,” she repeats herself. “Please. I want to be yours in every way.”

Jon freezes. He’s under no illusions about what her maidenhood is worth to the men who barter her like a pawn, like a parcel of land to be traded for power. That she would want to gift him with it…

“Sansa,” he says, sure he’s mistaken her meaning, sure she wouldn’t dare compromise herself with such stakes at hand.

“I want you to be the first,” she says. The reality of it makes Jon’s head swim. “Please! I want you to take me as hard as I can tell you want to.”

“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” he manages, sounding like he’s choking on the words.

“I don’t care!” she cries, almost hysterical. She’s curled on her side on the bed, her hands gripping the bedclothes with desperate strength. “I want to be sore tomorrow! I want something to keep. I want _everything_ from you."

A smarter man would still refuse; Jon is not that man. But he’ll not take her like an animal, no matter that she claims she wants him to. He stands and quickly disrobes, kicking his clothes to the side carelessly. Her body gives under his fingers as he catches her hips and pulls her – still curled on her side – to the edge of the mattress, stroking over all of her that he can reach before sliding gently inside her, as far as he can before she whimpers, tightening around him. It seems an eternity that he waits, allowing her to adjust to him. When she wriggles against him, he pulls out and slides back, repeating the motion deeper each time, letting her set his pace. She moans when he tucks his hand between her thighs and strokes, wanting her to find pleasure again.

“Oh,” she sighs. “I didn’t know.”

“What, Domina?” he manages, moving within her with slow, smooth thrusts, the heat of her licking at him, embracing him. Gods be good, he’s never felt so hard in all his life. He wants to be inside her forever.

“I didn’t know…this could feel so good. I thought this was only for men.” Heat collects in Jon’s belly. He wants to lose his mind and slam inside her. He wants to gather her to his chest and protect her from the world. He wants. His pace quickens, his fingers rub more seductively against her, more insistently, until they’re both panting and writhing, straining towards something almost within reach.

“I want all of you,” she gasps. “Please. Fuck me like I’ve dreamed of you doing.”

It’s more than he can withstand. Jon loses his gentility. He drives into her like a man gone mad, pushing her body up the bed so forcefully that he must climb atop the mattress to stay with her, his knees sinking in as he goes. He’ll leave her sore and aching but he’s beyond stopping, beyond thinking, beyond anything other than having her. With his last shred of control, he holds off until she stiffens and cries out, her cunt throbbing around his cock, beneath his fingertips. Then he slams into her until he too is overcome and collapses on her side, kissing her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, kissing her mouth when she turns her face to his all as he spills inside her. He should have pulled away, spilled on the bedclothes to protect her. But he is too far gone. He can’t protect her from anything, least of all himself.

Jon rolls to the side and pulls her with him, tucking her bare body against his. Already her breathing has grown even, her body lax. In moments, a delicate sound issues from her mouth, something too elegant to truly be called a snore. Jon smiles, even as his heart feels like it’s cracking in two, all his anger draining away to be replaced by a strangely sweet melancholy. He tightens his arms around her, holding her as close as he can. Perhaps she was right when she thought she was saving him.


End file.
